Closing the Door
by Windmills of your mind
Summary: Companion to I Wouldn't leave Without Saying Goodbye and A New Room. After Sherlock's departure, Abby struggles to cope alone. Warning: spoilers for Series 3, reference to smoking.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock**

The long summer days were beginning to give way to autumn; the seasons embracing in that brief exchange before the leaves started to curl and fall.

The sweet scent of jasmine floated on the warm night air, across the little balcony outside Abby's bedroom window and drifted through the open window to where she lay, not sleeping, again.

Three months had passed since he had left her; three long months in which she had hardly slept, hardly eaten; the only thing that could chase away her pain was work. And she had worked until her she was so tired, she could barely hold the paintbrush; her hands cramping, her body almost too weary to stand, but she did not stop, because to stop would allow her mind to drag her back to that terrible pain.

Abby rolled over in her bed; her hands stretching out into the empty space beside her. She reached under the pillow and pulled out the blue sweater; his blue sweater; he had left it behind when he went away, and every night Abby had laid in her bed, clutching the soft cashmere to her chest, breathing in the faint, lingering scent that still clung to the fibres; his scent; a scent that filled her with desperate longing; although with every day that passed, the precious link to him grew weaker, and Abby knew that the day would soon come, when it was no longer there.

She sighed and clasped the sweater more tightly, burying her face into it, gulping back her sorrow. She needed to sleep; tomorrow, or rather today, for her bedside clock told her that it was already 3am, was the opening day of her exhibition. The work she had produced to chase away her memories, had been some of her finest; and sorrow had made her into a prolific artist. 25 new canvases were to be displayed in a small gallery off of Rue Berger_. _She sat up, pulled the sweater on and swung her legs out of bed. Standing on wobbly limbs, Abby padded through her living room to the kitchen and filled the kettle, putting it on to boil; maybe a cup of tea would help.

Clasping her fresh mug of tea, Abby moved back through her bedroom, crossing the room to glance out of the window that overlooked the street below. Her traitorous mind dragged her back to the day he had left her, when she had stood at the window watching the large, black car that carried him away.

Suddenly, Abby gasped, the mug slipping from her grasp and clattering to the ground, splashing her ankles with scalding hot tea. Someone was standing across the street, half in shadow, looking up at her window. William! He had come back!

Without thinking, she raced to her front door, wrenching it open and hurrying out into the hallway; Abby ran down the stairs, barefoot, and emerged into the empty street, her heart pounding. She reached the spot where she had seen the shadowy figure. No one was there. She looked around, wildly, but the street was empty. If he had been there, surely he wouldn't just go away without coming to see her? Abby sank to the ground, her breathing rapid and ragged, as she sobbed with frustration.

"Abby?"

She looked up, her vision clouded by tears.

It was Juliet, her neighbour.

"What are you doing out here, in your nightdress?" Juliet asked, crossing over to the distraught young woman.

"I saw him, Juliet" Abby said, between sobs. "William was here. I saw him"

"Oh honey" Juliet soothed, helping Abby to her feet. "You need to get some sleep. You are starting to hallucinate"

"But I saw him" Abby insisted. "I saw him. Why didn't he come to me?"

Juliet helped Abby back upstairs to her flat, and sat her down in the living room.

"What happened to your legs?" she asked, concerned.

Abby glanced down; the hot tea had seared her ankles; they were bright red and blistered; she hadn't even noticed.

Juliet raced into Abby's kitchen and soaked a couple of tea towels in cold water; she then placed the wet cloth over Abby's scalded ankles. Abby winced.

"When your exhibition is over" Juliet said. "You really need to get away from here for a while"

"But what if he comes back? How will he find me?" Abby pleaded.

Juliet placed a consoling hand on Abby's shoulder.

"Abby" she said. "He isn't coming back"

* * *

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa with a sigh.

He had left John and Mary's wedding reception behind, the music and dancing continuing without him. He had really wanted to dance, but instead, had walked out alone, into the cool night air.

Now, back at Baker Street, he turned his attention to his next case. He would be working on this one alone, at least for now anyway.

His mobile announced an incoming text message, and Sherlock ignored it, lost as he was in thought.

However, some hours later, as dawn was breaking over the city, he stopped for a cigarette break, well no one was here who was going to tell him he couldn't smoke, and he picked up his phone to check his inbox.

Two messages flashed up:

"Where did you get to?" JW

Hmm, that one was expected.

The second message was not.

"Such a shame about Abby"

Sherlock stared at his phone in shock. There was no indication as to the origin of the text; it hadn't come from anyone on his contact list; he dialled the unknown number. A shrill sound emitted, followed by the clipped tones of a recorded announcement "The number you have dialled has not been recognised"

He dialled another number, tapping the table impatiently as he waited for the call to be answered.

The call went to answer phone.

"Pick up the bloody phone, Mycroft" Sherlock demanded.

There was a pause before the weary voice of Sherlock's brother responded.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"What does that matter?" Sherlock countered. "I need to talk to you. I'm coming over now"

Mycroft sighed.

"If you must. I'll send a car"

* * *

The detective marched into his brother's living room.

Mycroft was sitting in a large, leather armchair, holding a bone china cup of steaming hot coffee, he betrayed no sign that his sleep had been rudely interrupted.

"Would you care for a beverage" he offered.

Sherlock shook his head.

He opened the cryptic message on his phone and held it out for his brother to read.

Mycroft glanced at the proffered missive.

"Ah" he said, simply.

Sherlock glared at him.

"What do you know?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm.

"I have something for you" Mycroft said, neatly side stepping his brother's inquiry.

He set down his coffee cup and strode out of the room, leaving Sherlock pacing the room in irritation.

Some moments later, Mycroft returned, carrying a small canvas. He handed it to his brother.

It was a portrait of the detective. He was seated on the sofa in Abby's flat, wearing his favourite blue jumper and a pair of black jeans. His face was turned away from the viewer, obviously lost in thought. It was an excellent likeness. Abby had sketched him without his knowledge, and completed the painting after he left her.

"An associate of mine came upon this in a little gallery in Paris. As you were supposed to be dead at the time, he thought it politic to purchase the item and send it to me for safekeeping. You might as well have it now"

Sherlock looked up from the portrait, his eyes blazing and Mycroft knew that he could avoid answering his brother no longer.

"You may want to sit down" Mycroft said, quietly.

"Just tell me"

"She's dead, Sherlock"

The detective sank down onto the chair behind him.

"How? When?" he said, softly.

"She was hit by a car, about six months ago"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing you could have done, Sherlock, and you didn't need the distraction"

Sherlock glared at his older brother and swept from the room, clenching his fists in an effort to suppress the torrent of emotion that was threatening to escape from within.

The car dropped him off back at Baker Street, and Sherlock hurried upstairs, slamming the door shut behind him; he slumped to his knees and howled.

* * *

The sun was warm and bright; bees buzzed among the roses in the memorial garden that grew at the entrance to the little churchyard.

A middle aged couple walked slowly along the grass pathways that wound between the rows of headstones, finally stopping in front of a bright new memorial that shone out amid some of the aged slabs that had stood for centuries, marking the final resting places of parish inhabitants who had passed long ago.

"It's a beautiful piece of work" the man remarked, running his hand gently along the edge of the white marble.

His wife nodded, unable to speak as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

The expensive headstone was far beyond what they could afford, but that nice man from the government had said they were eligible for a special grant, as their daughter had made such a contribution to the art world. This statement had puzzled them a little, for although Abby's artwork had sold well, to say she had made a significant impact in art, seemed an over estimation. They were extremely grateful, however, for their modest income would not have even paid for the burial plot, let alone the beautiful headstone.

The woman gasped.

"Look Arthur" she said, pointing at the little stone urn in front of the headstone.

A posy of beautiful pink roses had been placed there; they were fresh, and had obviously not been there for long.

"There's a card" Arthur said, bending down to read in the inscription.

"_With my love, always" _it read.

"It's from him, isn't it?" the woman said.

She bent down and spoke softly.

"Look William. These are from your Daddy"

The small child, not quite a year old, held out a chubby hand and gently touched one of the petals. He had his mother's deep green eyes, but his hair was a shock of dark curls that his grandparents could only assume he had inherited from his father. They had never met him and all they knew about him, was that his name was William.

The boy yawned and his grandmother picked him up. He was clutching his little comforter; a pale blue square of cashmere that Abby had fashioned for her son, from William's jumper.

"Time for your nap, young man" she said.

She turned back to the headstone and stroked the cold stone.

"Bye Abby" she whispered. "See you tomorrow"

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to hide away all thoughts and memories of Abby in the remotest part of his mind palace. He couldn't seem to keep the door closed.

"Ooh, Sherlock. That's very good"

Mrs Hudson's voice cut into his reverie.

"What?" he said, uncomprehendingly.

"The painting" she continued, indicating Abby's portrait of him, which he had left propped up on John's armchair.

"Oh, yes" Sherlock muttered, not wishing to talk.

"When did you pose for that?"

"I didn't" he replied.

"Well, they've captured you perfectly" Mrs Hudson said, picking up the canvas. "And I like that jumper. I've never seen you wear it"

"I don't have it anymore" he said, rising from the sofa and carefully extracting the painting from Mrs Hudson's grasp.

"Where are you going to hang it?" she asked.

"I thought I'd send it to my parents" he replied, not wanting to tell her that he couldn't bear to see the picture every day; it was too painful to look at right now, but he wanted to know where it was; he wanted it to be somewhere safe.

"That's nice" she said. "I'm sure they will like that"

"Don't you have flowers to dust or something, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked, wishing to be left alone.

"Alright" she said. "I know when I'm not wanted"

"Not always" he called out as she retreated.

Later that day, he wrapped the canvas in brown paper and sent Mrs Hudson to the post office with the parcel for his parents.

Alone in the flat, he closed his eyes and said a silent goodbye to his time with Abby, before, with one final huge effort, he slammed the door on his memories of Paris and clicked the lock into place.


End file.
